


Needs More Salt 2.0

by forprussia



Series: I'm Figuring It Out, Okay? [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern OC in Thedas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 20:30:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16374536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forprussia/pseuds/forprussia
Summary: Kirkwall isn't that bad.  It's not too different from home, if you squint.  There's gangs, poverty, bars, strange shit always going on at the docks, and there's even a few bakeries here and there.  Anger problems and emotional turmoil aside, Fitz could probably manage to survive, but it'd be a hell of a lot easier if there were less people trying to figure him out.





	1. The Disappearance of Fitz Neves

Scott could remember the last time he saw Fitz more clearly than any other memory from his past.

Tuesday, October 20th 2015.  The weather had been steadily dropping that month, but it had been a remarkably sunny morning when Scott dropped Fitz off at the high school that day.  Fitz had slept over the night before, which wasn’t unusual in the least.  Of all the places Fitz could be, with Scott was always the safest; even his father felt reassured whenever Scott was brought into the equation.  For Mr. Neves, it meant his son wasn’t loitering on the streets at odd hours with his more questionable friends, and the likelihood of Fitz doing his homework jumped up a solid 30%.   Scott was a good role model, being a few years older and having a more grounded personality, and he was an even better boyfriend.

So, when Fitz sent a text on Monday afternoon informing his father of the impromptu sleepover, Mr. Neves didn’t give them any trouble.  This tended to happen twice or even three times a week, and therefore it was nothing to be worried about.  In fact, Mr. Neves wasn’t even worried when Tuesday night came around and there were still no signs of his son.  He’d received another text during the day, but when he came home after finishing up with his night class, he found no note explaining FItz’ continued absence.  Again, and more frustratingly so, this was not out of the norm for his son.  Fitz sometimes had problems with remembering to fill his dad in on his daily whereabouts, and so Mr. Neves assumed his son was out yet again.

He simply shot off one, slightly annoyed text and then went to bed, certain that his son would stumble in later that night, perhaps even in the early hours of the morning.  There might be a fight if that’s the case, but in that moment, Mr. Neves was too concerned with a growing headache and his own lack of sleep to be angry with his dirty stay-out of a son.

Wednesday morning was when alarm bells went off in his head.

Mr. Neves woke to his alarm clock and went through the routine of getting ready after only one hit of the snooze button.  No sound echoed throughout the small apartment, as it should be at six in the morning.  Fitz could be a heavy sleeper when he had a mind to it, preferring to wake up at the very last second (or many seconds later).  When it was still quiet after the clock hit seven, Mr. Neves left the kitchen where he was brewing a pot of strong coffee and rapped quickly on the thin, fake wood of his son’s bedroom door, which coincidentally lay just opposite of the cozy kitchen area.

When Fitz didn’t answer, Mr. Neves opened the door, inwardly sighing as he heard the door thump into a few items, which probably did not belong lying on the floor right next to a door.

A sarcastic reprimand was on the tip of his tongue when he realized his son was not even in the room.  The bed was unmade, and after a quick look around, he realized Fitz’ backpack was missing as well.

Mr. Neves entertained the thought that his son had simply decided to go to school early for once, but it didn’t sit right.  

It didn’t sit right at all.

 

* * *

 

An interrogation under the guise of a brief phone call was not exactly how Scott liked to start his mornings.  Especially not when it entailed covering for his delinquent boyfriend’s ass, and least of all to the guy’s father of all people.  

Scott could recall Fitz mentioning a small party that someone from school was throwing the night before and assumed that Fitz must’ve had a bit too much fun at said party if he didn’t even make it home.  Scott relied this information over to a worried Mr. Neves, taking care to say that Fitz had talked about going over someone’s house after school, just to hang.  Once Scott mentioned that it was someone from school, Mr. Neves seemed to calm down marginally.  After that, the man just asked Scott to tell Fitz to text him as soon as possible, and Scott readily agreed.

It was weird though, Scott thought as he checked his phone after hanging up with Mr. Neves.  Usually his phone would be lit with notification after notification from Fitz, especially if partying was involved.  But this time, there was not so much as a Snapchat.

Scott told himself not to worry, but he sent out a text, just in case.  If he didn’t hear back in an hour, he’d call and if there was no answer, he’d just message one of the other guys.  Someone had to have seen Fitz last night.  He was kind of hard to miss.

 

* * *

 

Tony Benedetto didn’t like school, almost as much as he didn’t like cops.

So, it kind of figured that he’d spend a good hour on Thursday morning in the principal’s office, answering a bunch of questions that were being fired off at him by some cop with an attitude.

It went like this: “Yes.  No.  No.  I’m telling you, Fitz wasn’t at my house the other night.  I invited him over, yeah, but he didn’t show.  I’m not his babysitter.”

The cop clearly thought he was hiding something which he wasn’t, because he was actually being completely truthful for once.  Tony was beginning to get a feel for the cop’s angle, too.  He probably already believed that Fitz was some kind of malcontent youth with flighty feet.  And, he was probably hoping to get a story about how Fitz didn’t want to go home that night so that he write him off as yet another runaway teenager and finally be done with this case.

Tony didn’t feel bad for him, and all the man got out of him was a casual confession that Tony had in fact seen Fitz on Tuesday during third period in which he had asked if Fitz wanted to hang out later and that all Fitz had done was shrug.  There wasn’t much else to it, and the cop could grumble all he wanted about it.

He let Tony go just in time for lunch.

 

* * *

 

Fitz had rolled up to school at exactly 8:24 on Tuesday, bleary-eyed boyfriend in tow.  He’d given Scott an obnoxious kiss on the ear, earning himself a half-hearted curse, before leaving the car.  Scott threw out another insincere insult, but Fitz only tossed back a smug smile and wiggled his fingers goodbye as he headed for the school’s side entrance.  He had his backpack slung over one shoulder, and a skateboard under the other arm.  His jeans were just a bit too snug, as Scott had lazily remarked on earlier that morning as he watched Fitz get dressed, and his winter coat was just slightly too big.  

 _ _He looks like a deformed marshmallow…in a cute way__ , Scott thought idly, just before pulling back out into the street, intent on going home and sleeping for at least another three hours.

That was the last time he ever saw Fitz Neves. 

The image would remain seared into his mind for a long time, even after he finally moved on.  He could remember how insignificant it was, how mundane, and yet the memory managed to make his heart catch in his throat for years.

A relaxed silhouette, looking comfortably warm in the cool autumn air, bundled in an overlarge coat with a thick fur-lined hood that looked almost sleek in combination with the narrow pants.  His shoulders were slightly slumped in a nonchalant way that didn’t read as rebellious until one took in the small swagger he walked with, head tilted partially up and to the side as if daring anyone to make a move on him.

It was a silhouette that Scott didn’t mind remembering, for it was as endearing as it was saddening, and he would cling to that image for many years after Fitz’ disappearance, but like with all things, the image would fade over time and eventually it would become tangled in with memories of youth and old loves until they were all inseparable and difficult to pick out, until it was just a plain silhouette without a face or any of the other details that made it anything more.

 

* * *

 

By the time police were involved, Fitz was just waking up and it wasn’t at a bus station somewhere west and far away from the city like the police thought was likely.  It wasn’t in his bedroom at his grandmother’s cabin in the barrenlands of southern New Jersey either, like his father hoped.  He wasn’t at any bus stop and he most certainly was not in his bedroom because, for one thing, there wasn’t a bed.  Or windows.  Or a white, plaster ceiling hanging above his head.  He could smell something foul, but it wasn’t gasoline.  It wasn’t like anything he’d smelled before.

Fitz wasn’t in New York or New Jersey.  Nor was he someplace out west that he never wanted to go to in the first place.  As he would find out soon enough, he was in a place that was much, much farther away from home than he could possibly imagine.

At first, Fitz thought it was a nightmare, but that thought was torn from him in a manner that was neither gentle nor kind, and from that moment on, everything was genuinely, devastatingly real.

 

* * *

 

Fitz woke up lying in a heap on the dirty ground, with aching bones and tight muscles, and he knew two things immediately.

His hands were tied, and he wasn’t alone.

 

* * *

* * *

 


	2. A Timely Rescue (It's Almost Like This Didn't Happen Last Time...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long time ago someone (Dalish) gave me an AU suggestion where Hawke & Co. find out about Fitz much earlier and save him. I've decided to make it canon in this reboot! I want to make this NMS very different this time around...

It felt a lot like falling.  

Fitz didn’t typically like to dwell on the day he came to Thedas, and while the ‘how’ part was actually quite important, thinking about it only served to give him a raging headache.  However, if he were to describe the feeling he had when he was pulled into another world, all he could think about was the sensation one gets when they miss a step on a staircase and their whole equilibrium is brought out of balance by the small miscalculation.

It was like he fell through a crack, a fissure in the world that wasn’t physically there or even visible to the eye.  Fitz certainly didn’t see anything.  It wasn’t until he was lying in the dust, surrounded by strangers, that he realized something was very, very wrong.

What happened after, Fitz refused to talk about, at least for a long while.  It was clear for all to see that he didn’t come out of it unscathed.  One could see it in the way his fingers shook at random; a tick he was almost never able to hide.  His shuttered eyes and signature impassive expression also told miles.

When Hawke had first stumbled upon him, the scene wasn’t exactly grim but there was still a fight to be had.  Trips to the sewers always seemed to take turns for the worse, every single unfortunate time Hawke was forced to step foot inside the wretched place.  Walking in on a party of criminals and seeing a kid shackled in the background wasn’t the most gruesome thing Hawke had ever seen, but it did make his blood boil.

On that day, his friends were all in unanimous agreement on their course of action for once.  They all knew talking wasn’t about to work in this situation, and so they barely tried.

There was just no point in talking it out sometimes.

 

* * *

 

“Is this a party or what?” Hawke asked, voice raised loud enough that several heads (and several staffs) swung his way as he sauntered into view, making his entrance grand as usual.  

The sewers of Kirkwall were about as scenic as any place full of foul waste and rank debris could be.  This particular stretch of the underground seemed to be a nesting place for a group of rogue mages, whose intentions didn’t seem entirely pure in Hawke’s eyes, if the slight figure chained to the ground in the far corner meant anything at all.  As Hawke got closer, he could tell that the figure was in fact a young boy, perhaps only a few years younger than Bethany.  Any chance of mercy and understanding seeped out of Hawke in a flash, and when one of the mages stepped out to meet him halfway, his eyes had already hardened and his smirk held a hell of a lot more steel than when he’d first made his presence known.

“Turn back now,” the mage ordered, raising her nose high and looking at Hawke through slitted eyes.  “You and your friends are not welcome here.”

Hawke faked a look of surprise, and threw a very deliberate look at the boy lying not too far behind her.  There were chains on his wrists and his ankles, and the latter were tied to a nearby grate with a thick piece of rope.  

“Is he welcome?” Hawke asked, pointing behind the mage, who tensed in reply.  “I would say not.  You aren’t the best of hosts, are you?  He looks like he’d very much like to leave.”

“This doesn’t concern you.”  

The mage’s words were curt and harsh.  The tension in the room was growing so fast, Hawke wouldn’t be surprised if Isabela already had a knife in her hand.  In fact, the mage in front of him seemed rather distracted by his party, her eyes darted between them all like a cornered beast readying itself to spring.  If Hawke knew his friends well, which he liked to think he did despite only being in their acquaintance for less than a year, he would say they had spread themselves out a bit (some would say strategically).

“Leave now,” the mage tried again, and to her credit, she didn’t waver.  If anything, she looked ready to put up a good fight.  Behind her, the boy shifted some, metal clinking quietly together as he attempted to back himself further away from everybody.  It was smart, too, because it wouldn’t be long now before the fight truly began.

Hawke smiled broadly.  “Unchain that boy and let him leave with me, and I’ll gladly go.”

The mage snarled, and whipped her arms back.  When she brought them forward again, they were accompanied by a large fireball that Hawke easily dodged.  Behind him, his friends sprung into action and together they divvied up the fight evenly, each of them taking down a few attacking mages in quick succession until the rest either ran away or were felled by an arrow, sword, or dagger.  Somewhere in between the fireballs and excessive use of magic, Hawke had been separated from the woman in charge of this mess.  

Driving a dagger into the back of a man who was aiming a particularly nasty blast in Varric’s general direction, Hawke looked around and caught sight of the woman immediately.  She had backed out of the fight, letting two underlings shield her as she knelt over the boy in the corner.  Hawke wasn’t sure what exactly she intended to do, but he knew this was as far as she’d get.

In quick order, two arrows pierced through the flimsy, threadbare robes of the two mages guarding their leader.  Hawke didn’t even spare them a glance as he stepped over their fallen bodies.  The fight was dying down, Isabela was laughing and there were no more explosions to be heard as Hawke raised a single dagger to the last mage standing.  She froze as metal touched the back of her exposed neck, but the hand she had wrapped around the boy’s face didn’t fall.

“Unhand him.  Now.”  Hawke’s order hung heavy in the air, and he got the notion that he was interrupting a rather vicious silent battle.  

The boy wore a surprising glare on his face, and his eyes remained locked on the woman who was equally as attentive, despite the blade at her neck.  Neither gave any further notice of Hawke; the mage didn’t make any moves towards unhanding the child, and her glare was so damning, Hawke wouldn’t have been surprised if the boy were to escape with massive burns on his face from where the mage’s hands were pressed.  It wasn’t until Hawke pressed more firmly with his dagger that the woman finally moved.  Her fingers slowly uncurled themselves from the boy’s face, dark imprints left in their wake.  Hawke breathed a small sigh of relief when he noticed they were bruises instead of burns.

“You have no idea what you are meddling with,” the mage hissed, barely dragging her eyes away from the boy long enough to glare at Hawke, and for the first time Hawke noticed the slight accent to her words.  She might have been Orlesian, but there was an underlying dialect that made the accent odd.

The mage stayed kneeling, though she finally kept her hands to herself.  She continued to speak, a tinge of hysteria entering her voice.

“You cannot have him.  He is mine… I did all of the work,” she was ranting, words beginning to stumble.  “He is special…Summoned…abomination… - the power I have…what this means for us all! - You have no idea… what he is!”

“Hawke.”

Fenris’ tone spoke levels of what he wished to do with the raving lunatic before them, and Hawke barely hesitated to comply lest the demon inside of her decided to make itself known.

Hawke didn’t slit her throat right then and there, not while the kid’s eyes were locked onto her, and her kneeling over him like that. 

“Varric, would you…” He gestured towards the boy, pulling the woman up to her feet.  It was then that she started to struggle, but in one deft move, he spun them around so his back was facing the kid.  He waited a beat, until he heard Varric talking slowly, before dragging his dagger across the mage’s throat.  He let her drop quickly, lest more blood than strictly necessary found its way onto his person, and bent down to clean his blade on the now silent mage’s robes.  

Fenris nodded once in approval when Hawke looked to him; the elf had finally shouldered his sword now that the coast was clear, though Hawke knew him well enough to know that he was still ready to spring into action at a moments notice.  Hawke put his daggers away as well, eyes instinctively roaming the ground for loot (Isabela was already pockets deep some ways away from them), but he had other matters at the forefront of his mind this time.

Varric had coaxed the boy into letting him get close enough to pick the locks on the cuffs that encircled his wrists and ankles.  He was freeing the boy’s wrists, ankles already clear of chains, when Hawke approached.  

“He’s a bit beat up,” Varric commented nonchalantly as the last of the chains fell away from the boy’s wrists.  Immediately, the kid set about rubbing feeling into them, grimacing a bit at what was probably a fair amount of pain.

“That’s not a problem,” Hawke said easily, addressing the boy in his next sentence, “I have a friend who will patch you up in no time.”

The kid stayed silent, and didn’t look up.  He was looking somewhere behind them, and Hawke could easily guess at what caught his attention.  Hawke exchanged a look with Varric, who simply shrugged before backing away from the kid.

“He lives very close to here, actually,” Hawke continued, never one to be daunted by silence.  “Might even have some food for you, too.”

The kid glanced up at him, just a flash of dark eyes and a glimpse of a peculiar scowl, but it was all the encouragement Hawke needed.

“Say, what’s your name?”

The kid took a deep breath, but didn’t say anything.

From across the way, Isabela whistled low and impressed.

“Get a look at these boots.  Fine, aren’t they?”  She held up a pair of short dark brown boots, not a patch or hole to be seen on them.  Despite some cuff marks and dirt, it was obvious that they were new and most likely expensive.

Surprisingly, the boy piped up immediately, eyes already locked onto the prize dangling from Isabela’s hand.

”Those’re mine,” he said, a bit fiercely.  It took him a minute to pick himself up, he all but ignored Hawke’s proffered hand, but eventually he stood on bruised and bootless feet.   

Isabela pursed her lips, and when she didn’t immediately return the shoes, Hawke threw her a stern look that had her rolling her eyes.

“Oh, relax,” she said exasperatedly, tossing the boots over to the boy with a lofty flick of her wrist.  He caught them, barely, with a heavy wince that Hawke couldn’t help but sympathize with.  He had seen the bruises and scabs left by the manacles to know the boy would be hurting for a good week at best.  “It’s not like I was thinking about stealing from some poor, abused youth.  How low do you think of me?”

“Fairly low,” Fenris answered, dry as ever.  Isabela pointed at him warningly.

“Now, what to do with you,” Hawke hummed, folding his arms as he contemplated the tight-lipped boy before him.  “You have to actually answer my questions if we hope to return you to your home.”

If anything, the boy seemed to tense even more.  He was knelt over his feet, one boot already laced up tight, and the curls of his hair hid his face well.  After a moment, the boy rose, but his eyes stayed on the ground.

”I…I don’t remember much…” he muttered, looking every bit as uncomfortable as he sounded.

Hawke frowned.  “Do you mean - you do not remember how you got here?” 

The boy shrugged.  “I don’t know where here is.”

There was silence, and then the weariness set in.

“Oh boy,” Hawke finally huffed out.  “This will be a lot harder than I thought.”

 

* * *

 

“Hawke tells me you’re having difficulty remembering certain things,” Anders ventured, tone friendly and gentle, as he looked over his new patient.

The boy bit the inside of his cheek, watching Anders warily.  His caution was proved to be prudent when Anders’ hands began to glow lightly.  The man barely had time to so much as hover a hand over one of Fitz’ many wounds before the boy wrenched back violently.  

Hawke steadied Fitz quickly, keeping him from vaulting backwards off the cot.

“It’s alright,” Hawke assured him quickly, leaning down ever so slightly.  “It’s healing magic.  Anders won’t hurt you.”

Anders frowned at Hawke, silently asking what happened to which Hawke merely shook his head, non-verbally promising to explain everything in due time.  Anders took it all in stride, and made a show of lowering his hand as a way to comfort the panicking boy in front of him.

Fitz forced himself to calm down, and when he finally had himself collected, he looked Anders in the eyes.  

”A bandage is fine,” he said, firmly.  “No…no magic." 

Anders frowned yet again and replied, “It would be safer to just let me heal you.  The risk of infection -”

“I don’t care,” Fitz said flatly, and that was final; Anders obliged after that.

“It’s worrying that you’ve seemed to have lost some of your memories,” Anders said after fixing the last few bandages to the wounds on Fitz’ legs.  He had just tied the last one when Fitz started unrolling the stiff material of his trousers and stuffing his feet back into his fine boots.  “It could have been the stress of your situation, but there are also certain instances where magic has been used to alter the mind…”

Fitz stared at his feet, and Hawke wondered if Anders’ words troubled him, or if he were simply avoiding looking at them.

“It may help speaking of what you do remember,” Anders suggested, in that same gentle voice from before, as if he were speaking to an easily spooked cat.  Hawke would have to make it a point to make fun of him for it later.

Hawke was beginning to think Fitz would revert back not speaking, but to his slight surprise, the boy finally opened his mouth.

“I was walking - on my way…from…” Fitz trailed off, making no move to fix his disjointed sentence.  When he spoke again, he started anew.  “There was a tug, and then it was like I was falling.  I…I think I blacked out, I dunno.”

“But, I woke up.  And, I didn’t - I don’t - know where I am or how I got here.  It just…it’s all just fuzzy.”

“You make it sound as though you’re not from Kirkwall,” Hawke commented, though he didn’t mention how obvious it was, seeing as how the boy had an accent that he couldn’t even begin to place.  Even Fitz’ attire was a bit abnormal, from color to material.

“I’m not,” Fitz said, sounding strained.  

“Where are you from then?” Anders asked, eyes flitting towards Hawke for a moment.

For the first time all night, Fitz looked openly distressed, disregarding the small bit where Anders almost healed him magically.  Hawke didn’t think that was very promising.  It seemed they had a semi-amnesiac kid on their hands.

“Alright,” Anders mused, thinking hard.  “What about a clan?  Are you Dalish, perhaps?”  he looked to Hawke, and said, “The blood mage might -”

“Merrill.” Hawke interrupted sternly, making Anders roll his eyes.

“Yes.  Perhaps she knows him.”

“I’m fairly sure not all Dalish know each other, my friend, but I suppose it can’t hurt to introduce them.  Although, he doesn’t really look Dalish, does he?”  Hawke turned his attention onto Fitz, who looked back with partially hidden confusion.  Hawke couldn’t help but feel amused.

“You’re turning out to be quite the handful, you know that?”

The scowl that jab earned him rivaled one of his brother’s own signature scowls, and the sudden likeness ripped through him like a punch to the gut.  Instead of grimacing like he was internally, Hawke grinned.

“You might as well sleep here for the night,” Hawke decided on the spot, looking around Anders’ clinic while he thought, “and then tomorrow I’ll introduce you to another friend of mine.  She might know what to make of you.”

Fitz knew he wasn’t in a position to argue, and he really was quite tired.  So, he simply kept his mouth shut and pulled his feet up on the cot he was sitting on, pressing himself up against the stone wall behind him.  

He didn’t relax, not even when both Anders and Hawke had left the room.  It was only when everything was completely silent, with Hawke gone and Anders somewhere faraway in the back of the clinic, that Fitz allowed himself to fall apart, just a little bit.

 

* * *

 

Fitz had a backpack, the clothing on his back, and his boots.  

There wasn’t much in his backpack; just a pen and a broken pencil, two school books labeled ‘American History II’ and ‘French III’ respectively, his wallet, and a small notepad that was already half full.  Both his skateboard and cellphone hadn’t made the trip with him, or at least he assumed so; he hadn’t seen either during his stay in the Kirkwall sewers.

Marcella had been remarkably unimpressed with the contents of his backpack, she didn’t even deem them valuable enough to hand off to her cohorts, unlike the fate of his boots which were snatched off him real quick.  

Each night when everything finally fell quiet, Fitz would bury his face into his backpack, which he was allowed to use as a pillow, and he swore he could catch a faint scent of home.  A wiff of Scott’s cologne, and maybe even something like laundry detergent.  It steadied him when his new reality kept attempting to push him over the edge.  A small reminder of something realer than the living nightmare he found himself in.  However, before long that scent would fade and he would be reminded of where he currently was.  

It all felt very unreal and very impossible, and that disbelief stuck with Fitz even after he accepted the fact that he had quite literally dropped into a new world.

It was with that very same disbelief that Fitz looked out at the busy streets of Lowtown for the first time.  It was around midday so the market was in full swing, and Fitz, who had never been to a Renaissance faire in his life, thought his walk through Lowtown might have been similar to how he imagined one.

Fitz began his day with a bowl of something gruel-like courtesy of Anders, which he then ate amidst an uncomfortable silence with the other man, who audibly sighed in relief when Hawke finally showed up to whisk Fitz away to some other person.

Hawke was an enthusiastic, if not overly friendly, guide and after a while it became clear to Fitz that the man was trying to jog his memory, as if pointing out every street corner and monument would remind him of where they were.  Fitz nodded along, perhaps somewhat blankly, because he didn’t quite feel like admitting yet again that he was not from Kirkwall while also avoiding the mention of where he’s really from.  It was all just too confusing and crazy sounding to say aloud.

“We’re almost there - oh, that’s where I live, by the way,” Hawke was saying, casually pointing to a building that looked identical to all the other ones around it, besides perhaps having a slightly larger stoop.  Fitz felt like he had only a second to take everything in, and then Hawke was announcing their arrival to a place he called ‘the alienage’.

“What’s an alienage?” Fitz asked, speaking for the first time since they left Anders’ clinic.

Hawke looked down at Fitz with surprise, though he hid it well.

“An alienage is where elves live,” he told the youth.  “There’s one in almost every city, I believe.”

“Elves…live…in,” Fitz repeated faintly, latching onto the word ‘elf’ with more disbelief than he thought was possible thus far.  His brain had to do some very quick thinking, because he was now very much aware of the fact that this world was even more different from his than he previously thought.

In Fitz’ world, there were certainly a range of various mythologies that believed in creatures called ‘elves’, and most of these creatures were usually depicted as having pointed ears and big eyes.  And, yes, Fitz did have ears that were pointed at the tips and his eyes were very big, but elves didn’t actually exist.  ‘Elf’ wasn’t necessarily a derogatory term back home, but Fitz had heard it here and there from people looking to make fun of his appearance, but that was normal stuff, like calling someone ‘four-eyes’ or ‘brace face’.  It was all very outdated, insult-wise.

Pointed ears were a genetically inherited feature, much like blonde hair or brown eyes.  Just about forty percent of the world’s population had pointed ears, just like how only about twenty percent of people had the ocular structure needed to see in the dark.  Fitz didn’t know much outside of what he learned in one biology class from forever ago, but he knew damn well that people with longer ears and wider eyes sure as hell didn’t equal a new (mythological) species.

Fitz was even more unnerved as they walked through the alienage, drawing the attention of almost every ‘elf’ they passed.  All Fitz saw was a group of people who just happened to have similar features bound together in some shitty neighborhood, and that left a very tight knot in the pit of his stomach.  They came to a stop in front of the last building in a row of ramshackle buildings that pressed up together, leaving no room for alleyways or anything, and Hawke gave its door a quick rap of his knuckles.  

“It’s a fuckin’ ghetto,” Fitz muttered under his breath, unable to keep a frown off his face even as he noted the nice flowers that lined the window next to the door.  Hawke tilted his head, and probably would’ve asked Fitz to repeat himself if the door hadn’t suddenly open, causing Fitz to startle somewhat violently.

“Hello!” A bright voice rang out.  “Hawke - and a friend!  How do you do?  Please, come in.”

Fitz looked at the small woman with wide eyes, but after receiving a small nod from Hawke, he accepted the invitation.

The woman, who Fitz assumed was the Merrill that Hawke mentioned last night, directed them to a table in the back of the room.  Merrill’s home was small, but neatly put together.  The living room dueled as a kitchen and dining area, and off to the right side was a second, even smaller, room that had just enough room for a bed and a curtained off bathroom.

Fitz sat down in a daze, while Merrill fluttered around them, holding a tea kettle of all things.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Merrill said, and Fitz jolted a bit when he belatedly

 realized she was talking to him.

“I’m new in town,” he couldn’t help but mutter.  It didn’t matter that he didn’t elaborate, because Hawke immediately began introductions.

“Merrill, this is Fitz.  We’ve a bit of a predicament,” he said, accepting a teacup from the other, who finally joined them in sitting once Fitz also agreed to a cup of tea.  “I was hoping you might be able to help, actually.”

“I would love to try,” Merrill said easily, eyes practically beaming at the prospect.

She wouldn’t be able to, but she certainly did try. 

 

* * *

 

It took nearly no time at all to come to the conclusion that Fitz’ ‘lack of memories’ would remain a mystery.  Not a single person could recall having ever seen him before, and Merrill had questioned a countless number of people throughout the alienage after she confirmed that he was not from her old clan.  It was a stump of a day that ended with Anders stopping by and having a chat with the hahren of the alienage, ultimately ensuring that Fitz had a place to stay at the end of the day.

It was an easy arrangement, that seemed to be long-term though Fitz balked at the idea of so much as thinking of the future.  Reeba, the alienage’s hahren, agreed that he may stay in her apartment for as long as needed, provided that he find some kind of work to earn his keep.  Fitz knew that Anders had told her his sob story, “held captive by blood mages, with only a fuzzy memory of how he got there”, and she seemed to take it as a matter of community duty to take him in.  Fitz wasn’t complaining, even if her house was already shared by at least ten other people, most of whom didn’t seem all that taken with him.

Still, Fitz knew it was better than nothing, and certainly better than where he was before Hawke found him.

 

* * *

 

Nobody bothered Fitz while Reeba was around.  The first day he came to live in her house, everybody suffered through the introductions and left him alone.  Most of the people sharing Reeba’s home actually seemed content with ignoring him, so while Reeba was telling him about places where he might find work, Fitz convinced himself that he would continue to be overlooked.  However, that changed once Reeba left the house for some reason or another and Fitz found himself surrounded by no less than three boys.

They must’ve been around his age, maybe even younger, and the biggest one, who Reeba had introduced as her nephew, wore a scowl on his face as he looked Fitz over.  There was something about the way the other held himself that made Fitz square his shoulders, instinctively tensing up.  Fitz was pretty sure that his name was Varrion.

“Never seen a bag like that,” Varrion said before giving Fitz’ backpack a short nod. “Lemme see it.”

“No,” Fitz said firmly.  His tone seemed to surprise the others, who perhaps thought he’d roll over and let them bully him.  Fitz knew these types well.  He didn’t want to start a fight in his new home on the very first day, but he also knew there was only one way to deal with these kinds of people.

“No?  Why not?” the other said mockingly.  “I just wanna look at it, is all.”

“There’s nothin’ to see,” Fitz stated, bringing up a hand to wrap possessively around one of the straps that rested over his shoulder.

“Don’t be like that.  Don’t be so rude, Fitz,” Varrion said, as if this were all a big joke, and reached a hand out.  The mocking tone was insufferable, the infliction made Fitz twitch with anger.

Fitz caught the other boy’s wrist in a tight grip just before it could touch him.  All the mirth seeped out of Varrion’s eyes as he tried to jerk his arm out of Fitz’ hold, and that mirth turned to anger when Fitz refused to let go.

“Don’t fucking touch me, or my shit,” Fitz said, leaning in.  He wore his patented ‘don’t fuck with me’ glare, which usually did the trick, and it worked this time as well.  Kind of.

Varrion backed off, which told Fitz that he didn’t have to worry about a fight breaking out in Reeba’s home.  Varrion must respect her and their home too much, thus making it a middle ground of sorts.  That didn’t mean he wouldn’t retaliate outside of the building, however.

“Watch your back, outsider,” Varrion hissed, finally wrenching his arm away.  He looked around quickly, noticing that their little argument had gained the entire room’s attention, before leaning in and spitting out, “I’ll get you.”

Fitz watched him and his friend leave, moving a whole eight feet across the room from him, and couldn’t quite hold back an eyeroll.  It even made him smile, for the first time since he got here.  It was a wry smile, but still.  He just thought it was funny that even in another world he had the ability to rub people the wrong way.

When Fitz laid down to sleep that night, his bag tucked securely under his head, was when he had his first bout of non-delirious anxiety about his situation.

He must’ve spent weeks in the sewers, which had felt exactly like a bad dream and Fitz didn’t know whether that was even possible.  If all of this was one bad lucid dream, that is.  That would be nice, he thought, because the alternative possibility was way more damning.

A dream, or nightmare, you can wake up from.

That night, Fitz came to a conclusion of sorts.  He decided that his situation was very much real, no matter how undesirable it was, and he knew he had to start thinking about keeping himself alive, because while Hawke and his friends had done all they could, their work was done now.  They got him a roof over his head, and now he had to figure out the rest.  Drowning in his own anxiety and sorrow wouldn’t get him anywhere, and Fitz wasn’t really the type to cry over his own misfortune.

So, though he wasn’t exactly okay, he knew he had to be, even if it was just for pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! Can you believe it?!
> 
> Like a year ago (longer??), I said I would post this when I had a few chapters written, like a liar. So, here I am posting this with only outlines and stuff in my head on where I wanna go with this. Sorry about that. I've had a really bad time with writing lately, everything I've written hasn't been what I wanted!
> 
> I like what I'm posting right now though. and I hope you all do, too!


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